


Ulterior Motives

by useyrwordsderek



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A little bit of gore, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, First Time, M/M, Not in a sexy way GOD, Not too much, Oblivious Derek, One Shot, Possessive Derek, Protective Derek, Scent Marking, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/useyrwordsderek/pseuds/useyrwordsderek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is warm for Derek’s form, Derek is repressed, and Erica is awesome. (Lydia is also awesome, but that goes without saying.)<br/>Author’s notes: Set after Season 2; mild spoilers for all of S1 and S2. Previously posted to LJ. My first Teen Wolf fic! Be gentle!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The thing is, Stiles doesn’t even LIKE Derek Hale.

Derek is broody and creepy and has a perpetual look on his face like the entire planet has deeply disappointed him. And anyway, there’s Lydia. Lydia is perfect and beautiful and now that Jackson’s in Derek’s pack, she’s ALWAYS AROUND. Being beautiful and nice-smelling and stuff. Stiles does research sitting next to her on the step of the crumbling porch of the Hale house and breathes in the wafts of her perfume. And when she accidentally brushes his arm with her own, his dick somehow fails to take any notice, because it’s already half at attention watching Derek, shirtless and sweaty, slam Boyd into the dirt over and over again. And isn’t that just AWESOME.

Gay is fine. Stiles has no problem being gay, or bi, or whatever the hell he is. But why can’t he be gay for Danny or Isaac or even Scott, for pity’s sake? He’d prefer to pine over his best friend, whom he actually LIKES, versus an asshole sour wolf who doesn’t notice he exists. An asshole who is currently holding Scott up in the air with one arm, biceps bulging and teeth bared.

It started after school let out, and Derek killed Gerard, that murderous fucker (Stiles isn’t even a little bit sorry that he helped), and Jackson stopped being a lizard monster that killed people. The alpha pack got run off with help from Chris Argent’s hunters, Peter out of state doing god knows what, and suddenly there was no one trying to murder them in the face every day and now things have settled into a sort of routine. They all come over to Derek’s crumbling burned out shell of a house every day and train, and most evenings they order pizza and watch movies on Stiles’ laptop afterwards. It’s been calm and sort of okay, and no sooner had that happened than Stiles found himself watching Derek after training sessions, little beads of sweat running down Derek’s abs and into the line of hair just above his jeans...watching him absent-mindedly cuddle with his pack when he isn’t thinking about it...watching him wash dishes in the deep sink of the fire-blackened kitchen, suds up to the elbows and feet bare on the charred wooden floor...

“...is something to do with horns, or maybe it’s just one horn, I’ve never seen this word before. Are you even listening to me?”

Stiles jerks around to Lydia and feels his face flush. “What?”

“I am translating this damned thing and you’re supposed to be helping me,” she says irritably, gesturing to his laptop and the webpage of archaic Latin translations, then at her own lap, full of pages of the bestiary.

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbles. “Uh, horns?”

“Horny, more like,” Lydia mutters, following his eyes back to Derek.

“What?”

“Nothing. Only you’re an idiot. And I’m going. Jackson,” she calls, and Jackson turns, teeth werewolfy but still looking like a Greek god, the annoying dickhead. Jackson lopes easily over to the porch, swinging his shirt over his shoulder as he comes. “You ready, Lyds?” He glares at Stiles, but it’s half-hearted, for form’s sake.

Lydia smiles at Jackson, and Stiles watches his face gentle as he scoops her off the porch and carries, her, giggling and attempting to corral all the pages of the bestiary, to the Porsche.

Stiles sighs, and closes his laptop. He might as well take off too, it’s nearly sundown and he’ll get more done at home. Far less random shirtlessness in the Stilinski household. He’s about to rise to his feet when Erica plops down beside him, and puts an iron hand on his arm.

“She’s right, you know,” Erica says, looking at him in that slightly feral way she has that makes Stiles want to either back away slowly or bare his neck.

“Hey, I’ve been doing research all summer to help you furry assholes!” Stiles yelps in protests, as the sharp points of her claws barely dig into his skin.

“Not about that. About you being an idiot.”

Stiles swallows, his eyes darting guiltily to Derek (currently crouching over Isaac, whose wrist he’s broken), and then back to Erica. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mm hmm. Derek.”

Stiles feels his heart race _just from her saying his fucking name_ , and the corners of her mouth turn up in a smirk. “Yes, no idea what I’m talking about at all. I can hear that.”

“Hey! You shouldn’t be allowed to just...listen to other people’s body parts! Some things are private! And you’re wrong, anyway.” Stiles knows he’s red all the way down his neck and his chest is blotchy under his t-shirt.

Erica’s smirk widens. “So what you’re saying is, you don’t want to lick Derek’s abs and have him hold you down and rub his-”

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop,” Stiles groans, holding his hands over his ears. The hard on in his jeans is getting uncomfortable.

“Right. Well, you’re shit out of luck, because he’s an idiot too.”

“Wh-wha?”

“I think he wouldn’t mind swapping spit with you actually, if he weren’t so fucking repressed.”

“Swapping...are you serious?” Stiles asks faintly. “You are not...you can’t be... _look_ at him! And then look at me! No one who looks like that is going to want...besides, he’s a total asshole!”

“You’re right about that,” Erica nods, watching as Scott jumps onto Derek’s back and is thrown clear across the yard for his trouble. “But he’s my Alpha and therefore I have a vested interest in trying to make him less of an asshole. And I think getting laid wouldn’t hurt in that regard.” She smiles widely at Stiles, a far more terrifying look for her than the smirk. Stiles swallows hard and leans away from her a little on the porch step.

“Leave it to me,” she purrs, and winks at him. That’s quite enough of that, and Stiles jumps to his feet. 

“Right, well, I still have no idea what you’re...and anyway, it’s none of your...gotta go!” he squeaks, and fairly runs to his Jeep with his laptop held over his groin and climbs inside with at least a small percentage of his dignity intact.

*

Stiles sort of forgets the weird conversation with Erica over the next few days, or at least tries to put it out of his mind, and gets on with his research. He and Lydia have translated nearly all the bestiary and are now considering a meeting with Chris Argent regarding some of the more murdery-type creatures that may or may not be heading toward Beacon Hills in the next, oh, couple of days, with their luck. It might not be a bad idea to have some sort of agreement in place while they still have couple of months of summer to put it into effect.

He’s in his usual spot on the Hale porch, just out of reach of the pouring rain, which hasn’t quelled the pack’s desire to beat the living snot out of each other, judging by the various body slams going on in the yard. Derek is wearing a white t-shirt that’s plastered to his skin and his jeans are slung low, dark and wet, over his hips. Stiles is studiously not looking at him. Scott comes wandering over and sits heavily beside Stiles, panting.

“All right?” Stiles mumbles around the pen in his mouth, comparing two pages in his lap.

“Yeah, just a broken rib, but Derek did it so it takes a little longer to heal,” Scott says, and stretches to the side. Stiles tries not to feel sick when he hears bones grinding around.

“You’ll be fine,” Stiles says, his attention still on the pages.

“You’ve been doing a lot of work lately,” Scott says. “You’re, like, super researcher Stiles this week.”

“Well, there’s a lot to do.”

“Yeah, but...you don’t stay for movie nights anymore.”

“Jackson’s laptop is nicer anyway,” Stiles points out, crossing out a word and writing a new one in above it.

“I know, but...I just miss you.” Scott sounds forlorn. He shoves Stiles’ shoulder with his own, and Stiles shoves back, smiling at him.

“How can you miss me when you’ve got Allison permanently attached to your face again? Speaking of which, I think we should set up a meeting with her father.”

“Really?” Scott’s face is torn between hopeful and worried. “You’ll have to get Derek on board.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles turns to look at Derek, who’s got Erica’s legs wrapped around his head and seems, for the moment anyway, to be losing the bout. His face is red and he keeps trying to grab for Erica’s hair and missing. Erica’s face is bright and mischievous and she tightens her hold on Derek’s head with her thighs, throwing her face up to meet the rain and laughing. Stiles smiles. “I think she might kill him, eventually,” he remarks.

“She’s tough as hell,” Scott says, with a hint of fear in his voice. “She’s not afraid of anything.”

“Well, it’s nice to have the terrifyingly fearless badass on our side, for once.”

Derek finally manages to detach Erica from his face and slams her one-handed into the mud, rainwater spraying from beneath her. She grunts and then grins at him and Derek, caught off-guard, grins back. It takes Stiles’ breath away, that wide grin on Derek’s normally-pissy face.

“Dude. What was that?”

Stiles whips around and faces Scott. “What?”

“Your heart rate just went, like, through the roof. And you smell, uh, you know. When you were looking at Erica. Do you...do you have a thing for Erica?”

For...Erica. That’s...probably less embarrassing.

“Well, she’s hot, isn’t she?” Stiles mutters, watching Derek easily lift her up off the ground, set her back on her feet, and hug her one-armed into his chest, heedless of the mud, burying his nose in her neck. He does that sort of thing more lately, lots of scent marking and pack hugs. He doesn’t hug Stiles, though. Stiles isn’t pack.

“Yeah, she’s hot. For sure. That’s...that’s really great, man. I’m happy you’re not still hung up on Lydia. Happy you’re getting back out there.”

“Oh yeah, I’m setting the world on fire over here,” Stiles mumbles, burying his face in his hands.

“Only...don’t you think she’s a little scary?”

Less scary than the alternative, Stiles thinks.

“Although, that can be hot, too...” Scott trails off, and rises, punching Stiles in the arm. “You definitely need to stay for movie night tonight, dude. You can talk to Derek about the meeting with Allison’s dad, and, who knows? Maybe there’ll be a scary part in the movie and she’ll cuddle up to you and hide her face in your chest.” He grins and walks back to the rest of the pack.

Oh, my sweet hell, Stiles thinks. What is my _life_ , even.

*

Movie night follows everyone showering the mud off in turns and is accompanied by ten large pizzas, which are inhaled by the pack as if they haven’t eaten in weeks. Stiles manages just two slices of pepperoni and mushroom and almost gets a finger bitten off by Boyd when snagging the second one. The whole pack is there, piled together in a big nest of blankets and pillows with Jackson’s laptop propped up on the fireplace so everyone can see. They’re watching Apocalypse Now and doing various terrible Marlon Brando impersonations. Stiles is sitting just behind everyone else on the sofa, sharing with Scott and Allison, who are as per usual sharing each other’s air. Isaac’s head is resting against Stiles’ shin, and Jackson’s head is in Lydia’s lap, who in turn is leaning against Boyd’s solid form. It’s normal.

Derek is, as usual, stalking around the fringes of things, broodily eating pizza standing up and snapping at people when they talk over the movie. He’s currently standing behind the sofa just behind Stiles, and Stiles can almost feel the heat radiating off him.

Erica enters the room freshly showered, having been the last to use the one functioning bathroom in the house, and Scott detaches himself from Allison’s face with a loud sucking noise and jumps to his feet, nearly dumping Allison onto the floor.

“Here, Erica, sit here! There’s room!” He shoves himself and Allison over to the end of the sofa, leaving a space beside Stiles.

Erica stops, tilting her head slightly to the side, and looks at Scott, then Stiles, then Derek, then back to Stiles. She looks baffled for a moment, then her face suddenly clears and she smiles the scary nothing-good-can-come-of-this smile.

“All right,” she says, and sits down beside Stiles, crowding into his personal space. She’s practically sharing the same _couch cushion_ , Stiles thinks, inhaling her spicy perfume and trying not to panic. What the...ohhhhh. Dammit, girls are just fucking smarter than we are, he thinks bitterly. And then her hand is on his thigh and his brain short-circuits.

“That’s...uh...” he trails off, winningly.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, snuggling up against his side. “Nice, huh?”

Stiles watches the movie with single-minded purpose and tries to ignore Erica’s hand sliding slowly up his thigh. Stiles sees Scott lean forward slightly, smirk, and then resume kissing Allison.  
Yeah, job done, buddy. Thanks.

No one has ever touched Stiles on the thigh before, and certainly no one has ever had their hand so far up his thigh that they’re practically shaking hands with Little Stiles, either. His body starts to respond despite the fact that he finds Erica not so much hot as potentially life-threatening, and he feels his cheeks heat up and his dick stir.

And then Stiles becomes aware of a low noise emanating from behind him. It’s...if he didn’t know better, he’d think...is Derek _growling_? Stiles whips his head around, catching a constipated look on Derek’s face. Derek sees him looking and immediately about-faces and stalks into the kitchen.

Stiles jumps to his feet, not-so-surreptitiously adjusting his dick in his pants as he does, and practically shouts, “Need more soda!” to anyone who might be listening. Erica looks up at him and laughs out loud. “Get me some,” she says dismissively, returning her attention to the movie.

Halfway between the living room and the kitchen, Stiles stops and leans against a handy wall, trying to get his heart rate and his dick under control. Several deep breaths later, he continues into the kitchen, where Derek is folding empty pizza boxes into fourths and shoving them into a trash bag.

“Uh, need more soda!” Stiles repeats brightly, flailing ineffectually toward the bottles sitting on the counter.

“So get some,” Derek says, blank-faced.

“Actually, I need to talk to you too,” Stiles continues, as he miraculously manages to pour himself a plastic Solo cup full of Diet Coke without spilling it everywhere. “Lydia and I think we should have a meeting with Chris Argent.”

Derek grunts, “What for?” and continues folding boxes.

“Dude, wouldn’t it be a smarter idea to be on the same side, at least as concerns any random fucking monsters that might make their way into Beacon Hills? He hasn’t bothered us once all summer. He knows you’ve increased the pack, he’s letting you train them, he’s even letting you deal with Jackson. There were no repercussions when you killed his father...I just think he might be worth talking to.”

Derek is silent for a minute. “I’ll think about it,” he says finally. He pauses, then adds “And what the fuck was that?”

“Was...what?” Stiles asks.

“Erica groping you out there.”

“Um...dunno. Guess she wants a piece of this?” he says, gesturing to encompass the awesomeness that is Stiles. “I mean, who wouldn’t, right? I’m amazing.”

“Don’t fuck around with her,” Derek says, warningly.

“I... _me_? Fuck around with _her_?” Stiles is stung by the injustice of it all. “She could break me in half!”

“She’s not as...” Derek trails off, shaking his head. “Forget it. Just don’t be a dick.”

“Um, roger, wilco, Captain, sir yes sir? Good talk.” Stiles mock-salutes and turns back toward the living room.

“Don’t forget her soda,” Derek says behind him.

“Oh. Right.” Stiles turns back and pours it, feeling Derek’s eyes on him.

“And go ahead and set it up.”

Stiles looks at him, confused.

“The meeting. With Argent. Next week.”

“You want to - okay. I will. Good. Great. I’ll let you know.” Stiles is more or less baffled, and returns to the living room, where Boyd and Jackson are now having a death-wrestle over the last piece of pizza. Derek shouts “Break it up, idiots!” from the kitchen, and they break apart, laughing, pizza slice torn between their hands. Boyd smirks around the biggest piece as he shoves it into his mouth.

*

The meeting is held the following Friday evening at the Argent residence. Either Chris or Allison has set out snacks, a heart-breakingly futile gesture as no one is even thinking about eating (and with a house full of werewolves and a Stiles, that’s saying something). Chris and Derek stand facing one another. Allison is behind Chris and Scott and Boyd are behind Derek. Stiles sits nervously on the edge of the sofa between Lydia and Isaac, hands full of papers. Jackson leans against the wall, looking bored.

“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” Derek growls.

“I’m not either. But my daughter wanted this, so here we are. Will you sit?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

Everyone stares at everyone, and Allison has this pleading look on her face as she looks at Scott, who shoves Derek with his shoulder and clears his throat. Derek turns and glares at Scott, and Stiles opens his mouth without thinking.

“We thought-”

“Stiles,” Derek growls.

“Sorry, sorry.” Stiles raises his hands and subsides back into the sofa. Lydia is a thrum of nervous energy next to him, Isaac a tightly-strung bow of tension. The room is silent.

“We want to come to an agreement,” Derek says finally, like it physically hurts him to spit the words out.

“What kind of agreement?” Chris asks warily.

Derek sighs. He sort of shrugs his shoulders helplessly under his leather jacket and gestures toward the sofa. “Stiles, Lydia. Explain.”

They both jump into action, tumbling over themselves to explain what they’ve translated from the bestiary, the likelihood that something that goes bump in the night will show up eventually, and how it’s in everyone’s best interests, not-dying wise, to be on the same side in that eventuality. Lydia has made charts, Stiles color-coded them. It’s all very professional and Stiles briefly regrets not throwing together a PowerPoint presentation.

“And the percentages say that we’re likely to see some sort of invasion in the next-”

Chris interrupts Lydia’s flow, earning him a wrathful glare. Lydia loves math.

“Fine.”

Everyone stops, looks at Chris. He raises his hands, palms up.

“Fine. We’ll come to an agreement. You haven’t harmed any humans, I’ve been assured that you’ve given everyone a choice before giving them the bite, and my family probably owes you for...what it’s taken from you.” He winces slightly, and Stiles watches Derek’s fingers unflex.

After that, it’s just hammering out details about territory and strategy and numbers and firepower, and Stiles is so relieved his heart is sort of dancing in his chest a little, and he watches Derek without attempting to hide it, watches him be strong and sure and protective of his pack, and it’s all pretty awesome.

And when they leave, as they’re all crowding out the door, rubbing up against each other to re-mark their scents in relief, Stiles feels the heat of Derek’s hand settle on his neck and Derek’s breath whisper into his ear.

“Thanks.” No one else hears, in the confusion.

_God_. “You’re welcome.”

“You were great in there.” Derek is actually leaning slightly against Stiles’ back, warm and firm.  
Stiles swallows, heart thudding madly. “So were you.”

Derek’s hand squeezes Stiles’ neck briefly, then lets go. His neck feels cold afterwards. They’re all outside now, and climbing into cars to go for food, and Derek looks at Stiles with this weirdly vulnerable look on his face and then nods him toward the Camaro. Stiles stops dead, Scott piling into him behind, and jerks a thumb toward his Jeep, his eyes questioning, never leaving Derek’s gaze.

The Jeep’s keys are plucked out of his hand and Erica says, “Come on, I’ll drive.” She laughs into Stiles’ infuriated face and when Stiles looks back around at Derek, his face is once more shuttered and he’s climbing into the Camaro.

In the Jeep, Stiles rounds on her. “God dammit Erica, what are you-”

“Shut the fuck up Stiles, you’re so full of shit. I’m doing this for your own good.”

“No, you’re doing this for _your_ own good!”

“Hey, who says a girl can’t have ulterior motives?” she grins, and floors it.

At the restaurant, Derek sits between Jackson and Boyd, and Stiles is shoved up between the wall and Erica because that is just HIS FREAKING AWESOME LUCK. Erica is laughing, picking cherry tomatoes out of Stiles’ salad and putting them in her mouth, the soft red flesh popping between her sharp white teeth. Stiles’ head is going to explode, it really is, and Derek won’t look at him. Lydia is jubilant, showing everyone her charts and boring them all to tears with analysis. But no one minds, it’s too good to know that the hunters won’t come after them and they actually have allies in this stupid, never-ending fight against who the hell knows what might come slithering down the road tomorrow. Scott’s not there, probably waiting on Allison’s roof for her to come into her bedroom, like that’s not creepy as hell, and Stiles feels a headache beginning at the back of his skull that he just knows is going to be a whopper. He shoves his chair back all at once and everyone stops talking and looks at him.

“I’m going home,” he announces, and leaves before anyone can argue with him.

*

Stiles sulks for two days, then decides to put on his big boy pants and deal. The pack needs him, he knows that, and it’s not going to do anyone any good if he sits in his bedroom pining away over some dude who looks like sex on legs but isn’t ever going to make a move (and probably has no desire to, let’s face it). He heads over to the Hale house on a stiflingly hot morning and manages to fall out of his Jeep exiting it, while everyone’s watching. Awesome.

He picks himself up, brushing off the stingy scrapes on his palms, and walks manfully toward his customary spot on the porch, plopping down next to Lydia, who’s already got her head buried in a book.

“Stiles.”

“Lydia.”

“He’s been more of an asshole than usual the past two days. I think he missed you.”

“What - who are you even-”

“Don’t. Erica told me.”

“Oh, Christ,” Stiles mumbles, raking his hands down his face.

“I’m not saying you don’t have good taste, god knows if I wasn’t with Jackson, I’d be _all over that_ ” Stiles shudders briefly “but couldn’t you have picked someone who wasn’t an asshole?”

“Lydia, please, for the love of all that is-”

“Stiles!” Derek barks from the yard, and Stiles nearly falls off the step. Derek’s wifebeater is stuck to his chest and abs with sweat, and he just glares at Stiles like a pissy demi-god. “Yep!” he yells back, standing up and flailing an arm in Derek’s general direction. I am truly a sex god, Stiles thinks. So smooth.

“You’re training today.”

Stiles flinches like he’s been slapped. “ _What?_ ”

Derek looks irritated, as usual. “Erica’s been on my ass for two days about how the human members of the pack need to be able to protect themselves too. So. You’re training today.”

The lady werewolf in question swoops down on Stiles in a blur of movement. “You can train with me, Stiles.” She smiles winningly, and Derek scowls at them both and turns his attention back to taking Jackson and Scott apart limb by limb, by the looks of it.

Stiles would probably be more terrified about what he’s apparently going to have to do, but he’s still stuck back on something Derek said. “The human members of the pack?” he asks Erica faintly.

“Um, yes, dumbass, do you think we just have random strangers go with us to meet hunters at their house and hang out with us every day? You’re pack, same as Lydia and Allison.” She rolls her eyes and crouches into an aggressive stance, squaring off with Stiles.

“I’m...pack?” he wonders to himself aloud, and is utterly unprepared to be slammed into the dirt by Lydia in a full body tackle. All the air in his body whooshes out and she digs her elbows harder into his solar plexus. “First lesson: blocking,” she announces.

The afternoon continues in much the same way, Stiles getting beaten to hell by Erica at every turn, occasionally switching off with Boyd, who at least seems to be attempting to hold back, but even his lightest swats hit Stiles with the force of a Mack truck made of granite.

“This is awesome,” Stiles pants, spitting blood into the dry dirt at his feet. “I’m really enjoying this pack bonding time. You know, I’m really reconsidering my commitment to werewolf motion-” And then Erica throws him back down again.

“Break,” Derek calls, and Stiles limps back over to the porch and curls into the fetal position on the step, moaning softly. He looks up at Lydia, who is shaking her head at him fondly.

“Why don’t...you have...to train?” he gasps out.

“I did already, this morning. Turns out I’m incredible with a compound bow.”

“Of course you are,” Stiles groans, trying to catch his breath.

After break, a hurriedly-gulped bottle of water, and a few more episodes of Stiles feebly trying to block Erica’s enthusiastic tackles, it happens. Stiles is thrown to the ground again, but this time he hears a crunch and feels a searing pain in his side.

There’s a flurry of movement and Stiles hears a snarl and a scream and then Derek’s face is above his.

“Stiles?”

Stiles moans.

He feels fingers pressing gingerly along his side and sucks in his breath to keep from screaming. “Broken rib,” Derek mutters, and scoops Stiles carefully into his arms like he weighs nothing, cradling him against his broad chest as he walks him into the house. Stiles notices Erica has a gash across her face as she calls, “I’m sorry! It was an accident!” Derek growls at her and she falls silent.

They reach the house and Lydia is up and off the porch and bustling ahead of them to prepare a space on the couch, where Derek deposits Stiles with infinite care. He leans over Stiles, and his face looks ashen. His eyebrows are drawn together even more than usual.

“God dammit Stiles, why didn’t you block her?”

Stiles laughs, then immediately regrets it, clutching his side and moaning. “You try blocking her without super powers! Soft, squishable human, remember?”

Despite the fact that Derek’s words and tone are angry, his face looks scared, and his fingers are gently brushing Stiles’ neck. “We should get you to a hospital.”

“No, don’t be stupid, it’s just cracked, I can still breathe. Mostly. Besides, what am I going to tell my dad?”

“We were screwing around on our bikes and you fell off a curb,” Scott supplies, hurrying into the room. “I’ll take you home and we’ll tell him together.”

And then, as Scott approaches the couch, Derek turns and _bares his teeth_ at him. The snarl that rips out of his throat is just on this side of being controlled. His eyes flash Alpha red.

Scott leaps back a couple of paces. “Whoa, dude, what the hell?"

Derek is crouched over Stiles and he is still snarling, and Stiles feels a thrill of terror and anticipation. What the fu-?

And then it’s over. Derek shakes his head, like a dog shaking water off, and the snarl stops and he rises heavily from Stiles’ side on the sofa. “I’ll get him into your car and follow with the Jeep. Let’s take him home now.”

Everyone is staring at Derek, frozen, and he won’t look at anyone. Scott meets Stiles’ eyes and his eyebrows raise.

“Now!” Derek barks, and everyone is in motion again.

*

Somehow Stiles is bundled into Scott’s mom’s car, Erica still apologising from across the yard though not daring to get any closer, and then they’re driving back to Casa Stilinski and Stiles can see his Jeep behind them through the sideview mirror.

Scott is silent for a few minutes, then says, “What the hell was that, dude?”

“You’re asking me?” Stiles asks, askance. “I have no idea.”

“He was acting like...”

“Well? He was acting like what?”

“I don’t...I don’t know. He was acting like I would have if Allison got hurt. When Allison’s in danger, I can’t stand to have anyone else near her. Especially other werewolves. I just want to...protect her myself. Put myself between her and danger. Like, my body. But that doesn’t make any...why would Derek...” he trails off.

Stiles is staring at Scott, open-mouthed, and suddenly his heart, his poor stupid battered heart, surges and his eyes flick to the Jeep behind them on the road. He lets himself feel, for just one minute, what it might be like if Derek would...if Derek could...

Scott starts, sniffs, and jerks his head around to look at Stiles. “What. The hell?”

Stiles looks at him, opens his mouth, closes it again, closes his eyes, sighs. “Can we just. If I promise to tell you tomorrow, can we not talk about it right now? Right now, I just want to take some aspirin and go to bed. For, like, ever.”

Scott is staring at him, then finally has to look back at the road before they crash into a tree or something. The silence stretches out until it’s almost screaming in Stiles’ head, and then slowly Scott nods and speaks, facing forward. “All right, dude. We’ll talk later. But _we will talk_ ,” he finishes ominously, and then they’re pulling into the driveway and Scott and Derek are getting him upstairs and he’s swallowing three aspirin and curling up under the bedcovers and sleeping is just the best thing ever, it’s what Stiles was invented for, really, and he’s going to fulfil his destiny to be the, like, champion sleeper of the world right fucking now. He hears Scott talking to his dad, who’s just arrived, and somehow Derek isn’t in the house anymore, and that’s all he knows before he drifts into coma sleep.

He wakes up and it’s full dark outside. Stiles can hear his dad moving around in the house. He smiles as he remembers a dream he was having, something having to do with dark hair and green eyes and strong thighs and...he stretches luxuriously, and then lets out a little scream and clutches his side, now wrapped tightly in bandages. Oh, right. Broken rib.

His dad hears and comes jogging up the stairs and into Stiles’ room. “Hey son. You all right?”

“Yeah, just stretched the wrong way.”

“You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital? Scott and I wrapped it up pretty tight and I’m not sure there’s anything else they can do, but we should still maybe get it checked out.” His dad looks at him with that pinched worried expression that Stiles hates, that you-are-the-only-thing-left-in-my-life expression that makes Stiles feel so exceptionally guilty about all the ways he doesn’t respect his own fragile human mortality these days, what with running around in the woods with creatures of the night at all hours.

“No, Dad, don’t worry, really. I’m fine.”

His dad fusses for a few minutes more, and brings him a glass of water, but eventually he leaves, and Stiles is left alone to try to recapture the threads of that dream, and remember how Derek put his body between Stiles and any danger when he got hurt...

There’s a soft thump outside his window and then it’s sliding open from the outside and Derek is suddenly in his room, big and looming in his leather jacket.

“Just let yourself in, that’s fine, what’s privacy?” Stiles grouses, secretly thrilled to see him.

“You screamed.”

“I did not scream. I let out a manly grunt of pain when I moved the wrong way, that’s all.”

“You screamed like a little girl and then I couldn’t come and check on you because your dad was in here.”

“I did not-” and then Stiles breaks off with a squeak because Derek is suddenly all up in his personal space, pulling down the covers and frowning at Stiles’ bandaged ribcage. “Um, dude? In bed here?” Stiles protests.

“Take that off.”

“Wha?”

“You shouldn’t use compression on a broken rib, it can cause pneumonia.”

“And how do you know that, Dr Hale?”

“I Googled it.”

“You..what? You Google things now? When? When did you Google it?”

Derek looks shifty. “On my phone.”

“On your way over here?”

Derek doesn’t answer, looking supremely annoyed.

“You never left, did you? You dropped off my Jeep and you’ve been sitting on my roof ever since, Googling ‘broken rib’ and reading Yahoo! answers like the creeping creeper you are.”

“Shut up, Stiles. Take it off.”

“Well, freaking help me then, Doctor! It’s not like I can move around much.”

Derek sighs like Stiles is the actual worst, but his fingers are relentlessly gentle as he finds the end of the bandage, shifts Stiles around, unwinds the bandage with very little help from Stiles himself. Derek’s hands are hot like a brand and Stiles never expected to feel them on his chest, his stomach, his anything. Finally and somewhat regrettably, it’s over and Stiles lays back down gingerly with a sigh.  
“That feels better. I can breathe deeper again.”

“The internet says you should try to breathe deeply even if it hurts or else you can lose lung function.”

“Did you slash Erica in the face?”

“I...” Derek looks guilty, then angry, then guilty again. “Just a little. She’s fine now. I called and checked."

“You shouldn’t slash people in the face, you know. Not even your own pack. _Especially_ not your own pack.” Stiles wags a finger at him.

“I’m...sorry,” Derek says stiffly. “I know she’s...special to you.” His face resumes its customary expression of annoyance and distaste. “Anyway, you’re fine, I’m going.”

Stiles panics. “Wait!” he blurts out.

Derek turns, already halfway to the window. “What?”

“She’s not.”

“What?”

“She’s not. Special to me. I mean, she’s pack, so I care about her, but. She’s not. Specially special to me.”

Derek’s face shows some expression Stiles has never seen before. “Oh,” he says finally. He turns back to the window.

“Wait!” Stiles blurts again.

Derek sighs, turning back again. “What, Stiles?”

And Stiles has absolutely no idea what to say. _Get in bed and rub your abs all over me? If there’s anyone who’s special to me, it’s you, you dick?_ Instead he says

“When I was little and I got sick or hurt, my mom used to stay with me until I fell asleep.” And then he immediately burns with embarrassment. What is he even _saying_?

But Derek’s face softens a little and he’s somehow moving back over and grabbing the desk chair and sliding it over beside the bed and sitting down on it. He folds his arms and looks at Stiles.

“Um. Thanks. I might not be able to fall asleep, like, instantly, or anything.”

Derek says nothing, staring at Stiles with an unreadable expression.

“You could talk to me.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, dude! Anything. Talk to me about anything.”

Derek shifts in the chair. “I’m not...I don’t talk much.”

“Really. You shock me,” Stiles says flatly. “All right, well...” and he knows he’s pushing it now, can feel his luck running out, but says it anyway... “There’s something else my mom used to do for me when I was sick.”

Derek looks wary. “Yeah?”

Stiles nods, trying to keep his voice light. “Yeah. She used to scratch my head.”

“Scratch your head.” Derek looks incredulous and suddenly constipated again.

“Uh huh. It feels really good. Hasn’t anyone ever scratched your head? It’s soothing.”

Derek might kill him, judging by the look on his face. He might actually just reach across the bed and rip Stiles’ throat out for being so annoying, and then Derek is reaching across the bed and Stiles braces himself for throat ripping and closes his eyes, but instead he feels Derek’s hand settling tentatively onto his head and scratching a little at his scalp.

“You’re too far away,” Stiles mumbles. He keeps his eyes closed.

He hears Derek sigh, and then feels his weight sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. The hand settles more firmly on Stiles’ head and Derek scratches lightly all over Stiles’ scalp.

“Mm, nice,” Stiles says, burrowing into the bedcovers, mindful of his ribcage. “More scratching, please.”

And then the bed dips down further and gives a little squeak in protest, and Stiles freezes in place because Derek has just _lain down beside him in bed_ and he cannot, absolutely cannot think about how many times he’s jerked off with this as the opening salvo to an entire array of sexytime acts. He must not think about that for one single second or everything is going to be ruined, and-

“Stiles.”

Stiles opens one eye, peeks to the side. Derek’s face is very close, sharing his pillow. “Yes?” he asks formally, as if Derek is going to ask him the time.

“Relax.”

And then Derek’s hand is scratching Stiles’ head and drifting down to drag across his neck, and maybe touching the side of his jaw and up his cheek a little but who’s counting? Not Stiles, that’s who, because Stiles is taking deep breaths through his nose and reveling in it all and trying not to get a hard on, or rather, trying to ignore the hard on he already has.

And somewhere in there, with Derek scratching his head and _caressing_ , that’s really the only word for it, his neck and occasionally leaning close to snuffle at Stiles’ shoulder like a big dog would, Stiles falls asleep.

When he wakes up in the morning, Derek is gone but his head’s imprint is still on the pillow, and Stiles grins like a loon when he sees it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is my life_ , Stiles thinks, and even though he’s up to his elbows in vampire gore, he finally means it in a good way. His pack, his awesome freaking pack, they win. They’ll always win.
> 
>  
> 
> Aaand we finally get to the porn.

It turns out healing from a broken rib is really fucking boring, and he’s not allowed to drive so he’s stuck in his house, doing piles of research in bed and freaking himself out about all the monsters out there that probably want to kill him for being allied with a pack of werewolves. But at least one member of the pack visits him every day, except Erica, and they bring news. Even Jackson visits, sprawling bored and irritated across Stiles’ desk chair, but still talks to him about lacrosse and pack training and his stupid Porsche. Lydia brings analysis and candy. Scott brings curly fries. Allison brings a book about 18th century supernatural creatures (more fodder for his nightmares).

Derek visits at night. It’s not every night, but it’s most nights. He comes in by the window, takes off his jacket and drapes it over Stiles’ chair, kicks off his shoes, lays down on the bed, and scratches Stiles’ head until Stiles falls asleep. Sometimes they talk, about Stiles’ research, mostly, but often they don’t talk at all. They don’t even say hello. In the morning, Derek is always gone. It’s this weird routine they have that Stiles loves and fears in equal measure, so afraid to break the fragile bubble of whatever the hell this is that he hardly dares to breathe.

He knows he is raging, spewing, gushing arousal hormones. He knows Derek must smell it all over him. Hell, the whole damned pack, at least the wolfy members, must smell it. But Scott never did ask him about what the hell happened the day Stiles broke his rib, and no one brings it up. Stiles lays beside Derek in bed, his dick so hard it’s pressing up against the waistband of his pajamas, and Derek doesn’t mention it. Derek puts his face in Stiles’ neck and breathes on him steadily and deeply, like he does with the rest of the pack. Some kind of barrier that had kept Derek from touching him before is broken now. Derek touches Stiles, chastely, like a brother, all the time now. And Stiles might actually fall down fucking dead if something doesn’t happen soon.

After three weeks Stiles is up and around and after four he’s pronounced healed by an x-ray, and the first thing he does is get in his Jeep and drive to get his own damned curly fries. The second thing he does is drive to the Hale house.

“All hail the prodigal son!” Lydia calls when she sees him, and the pack surrounds him, touching him gently and sniffing him and breathing on him. Stiles sees Erica standing slightly apart, and smiles at her, gesturing her into the scrum. She comes willingly and says quietly, “I’m sorry,” burrowing her face into his neck.

“Don’t be stupid, it’s not your fault I’m all fragile,” he says, patting her awkwardly. She is visibly relieved and he is in turn relieved to find her face as perfect as it was before Derek slashed her.

Stiles looks around but Derek is nowhere to be seen. Lydia sees him looking. “He’s out in the woods. He does that a lot lately.” She shrugs, and leads him over to where someone has put a rocking chair on the porch. “There, that’s for you,” she says, pushing him into it. “You’re watching, and when you’re completely better, you’re going to learn how to use a compound bow and a knife with me. There will be no more beating up of Stiles.”

“Amen,” Stiles agrees heartily.

A week or so later, Stiles starts training, and it turns out that while is is phenomenally crap with a bow, he’s not bad with a knife. He buys two dart boards for his bedroom and practices with them double layered at home. Derek sees it but doesn’t comment.

And a week after that, on a stiflingly hot late afternoon in August, is when all hell breaks loose.

There is an actual fucking vampire, not handsome and tall and sparkly like Stiles might have secretly thought, but dirty and matted and smelling of dried blood even to Stiles’ human nose. Not that Stiles knows he’s a vampire when he shows up in the woods while they’re all training, and suddenly before anyone knows anything he’s got Allison with his arm around her throat and he’s dragging her backwards and he’s got the points of his yellowed, disgusting fangs pressed right against the blue vein in her neck.

Scott charges and Derek tackles him, handing him off to Boyd, Isaac, and Jackson to control, and Derek approaches the vampire with his arms out, palms up.

“Let her go,” he growls. “Let her go and deal with me.”

The vampire shakes his head, and the tip of one canine barely pierces the pale skin of Allison’s neck. A tiny bead of blood forms there. Stiles is frantically looking for an opening, any opening, to let loose his knife, and he glances to the side to see Lydia, face like stone, with an arrow already notched in her bow. The werewolves are growling and snarling and pacing, and Scott is making feral roars and nearly toppling both Boyd and Jackson in his gigantic fury.

And then Erica, oh lovely Erica, Stiles has never been so damned happy to see Erica, drops down from a tree and lands on the vampire’s shoulders. He lets go of Allison in surprise and then Erica _twists and wrenches his head right the hell off_ with a look of savage pleasure on her face. “Fuck. You,” she spits, tossing the vampire’s head several yards from his body and landing lightly on her feet. 

And then it’s all a blur of movement and incoherent yells and Scott is on Allison’s prone body already, hands gentle on her even as he snarls when anyone else gets near. “Just let me see it, let me see the wound,” he hears Lydia plead, and Scott finally relents, retracting his fangs and moving over an inch, body still curled around Allison like a vise. Stiles catches Derek’s eyes, and Derek makes to move toward him, then turns back to Allison, lying on the ground, and kneels down on Lydia’s other side.

Stiles moves fast too, and they are all surrounding Allison, who is protesting, saying, “I’m okay, for God’s sake Scott, I’m okay, it’s okay, just-”

And Lydia is cleaning the wound with some powdered herb they got from Deaton when it seemed like they should maybe be prepared for any eventuality and that’s when Stiles first understands it was a vampire and how serious the whole fucking thing was, even though it’s over, and Allison is, actually, okay. He starts to shake a little and has to sink down to his knees, and Boyd pulls him close and breathes on the back of his neck until he starts to feel better.

He feels Derek beside him, and Derek pulls him up into a one-armed hug, gently, and murmurs, “Bring your knife,” but it’s almost like an endearment. He stands up and walks with Derek to the corpse, and they begin the grim job of cutting the vampire into small pieces, because werewolves can’t even bite a dead vampire, since they just don’t know how the virus spreads. They’re leaning over the bloody, vile corpse, and Derek breaks the elbow socket so Stiles can saw through it. _This is my life_ , Stiles thinks, and even though he’s up to his elbows in vampire gore, he finally means it in a good way. His pack, his awesome freaking pack, they win. They’ll always win.

It takes an hour to butcher the body, and then they start a carefully-controlled fire (Derek’s eyes on it every second) and burn every last scrap of it. Allison is fine, walking around, Scott shadowing her every step. The pack is reliving the experience, talking and laughing, blowing off steam. They’re fine, Stiles repeats to himself. They’re all fine.

They drift slowly back toward the Hale house, staying close, lots of scent marking. Erica strips off all her clothes unself-consciously and bathes in a stream to remove the stench of the vampire. Boyd gives her his t-shirt to wear home, which is big enough that she could belt it and wear it as a dress.

Stiles and Derek kneel by the stream, very close together, and wash the blood and bits of gore off their arms. Stiles’ shirt is a lost cause. He’ll have to bury it, because his father can’t ever see this.

Scott gently pours water over Allison’s neck and shirt where the vampire touched her, carefully avoiding the tiny wound smeared with the powdered herb. His face is inexpressibly tender. Stiles watches him, leaning unconsciously into Derek, and feels Derek’s arm wind tight around his shoulders. He leans back further, letting his weight slump against Derek, and Derek snuffles at his neck and presses a kiss there.

Stiles startles and turns to look at Derek, but Derek has already turned away and is walking over to Allison to scent mark her as well, now that Scott is letting other people near her. Stiles smiles and presses his hand against his own neck, still feeling Derek’s lips there.

*

It’s late evening by the time they get back to the house, and no one is in any mood to separate. Even Jackson texts his parents and tells them he’s sleeping over at Danny’s. Stiles and Scott text their own parents and give the standard lie about sleeping over at each other’s houses. Everyone is exhausted and no one wants to be apart from anyone, so it makes sense to just pile together in the nest on the living room floor, fumble off shoes, and just lay with limbs flung everywhere, Lydia’s hair in Stiles’ face and Jackson’s arm thrown across her and resting on Stiles’ hip. Stiles smiles, imagining how weird this scene would have been even a couple of months ago. But now it’s just them. His pack.

Derek is suddenly there, and he whispers, “Stiles.” Stiles rises and disentangles himself, earning a protesting, sleepy noise from Allison, who is pressed against his back with Scott curled around her from behind. She scoots closer and rests her head against Lydia’s shoulder.

Derek looks at Stiles from across the room, then turns and walks up the stairs. Stiles follows him up and into the room Derek's clearly been using as a bedroom. Stiles hasn’t been in here before, and despite his exhaustion and the awesome crapfest of a day they’ve just had, he feels a thrill run down his spine at being in Derek’s personal fortress of solitude.

Derek turns to face him and sits down on the bed (there’s an actual bed, Stiles thinks dumbly). He looks up at Stiles, who says, softly, “What?”

“Sleep with me,” Derek says simply. And Stiles surges forward, wrapping his arms around Derek and falling onto the bed with him. They’re pressed tightly together and for once Stiles isn’t thinking about his dick and its proximity to Derek, he just wants to be close, closer, as close as it’s possible for two people to be without unzipping their skin and climbing inside. He feels Derek’s heart beating against his own chest, and Derek is holding him just as tight as he’s holding Derek.

“All I could think, when I saw...when I saw him,” Derek whispers hoarsely, “All I could think was, how can I get to you? And then I saw you, and you had your knife, and you didn’t look scared, you and Lydia, you’re so fucking brave, both of you, standing there ready to fight alongside us. You were amazing, Stiles. You are amazing.”

“I’m...not. I was scared. I just didn’t know it til afterwards,” Stiles mumbles, muffled against Derek’s chest, Derek’s arms like steel bands around him.

Derek huffs out a laugh. “Idiot, even I was scared afterwards. Everyone was. But you didn’t hesitate. You stepped up. To protect us. Your pack.”

“My pack,” Stiles repeats, smiling against Derek’s chest. Derek feels the movement and looks down, smiling back at him.

“Yeah, your pack, what did you think? You’re my pack. You’re mine.” Derek growls that last part and Stiles’ stomach flips over. Suddenly, his dick is back in the game. He attempts to gently push away from Derek in the lower area, but Derek isn’t having any of it, just tightens his grip, and Stiles commences a silent panic attack about what will happen when Derek feels Stiles’ hard on pressing against his leg. And by now it must be obvious, but Derek just keeps smiling at Stiles and sort of petting him a little. It’s finally all too goddamned much for Stiles and he just blurts out,

“Derek.”

“Yeah.”

“Um.” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut.

“What is it.”

“I might die if you don’t do something.”

“What?” Derek pushes back a little and looks at him. “What?” he says more gently, shaking Stiles a little bit.

“You have to...I don’t know, Derek. You have to kiss me, touch me, touch my...fuck, just touch me. Please.” Stiles will never admit that that last part came out as a whine.

Derek is silent, staring at him. “Are you...do you...you want. Me?”

“Derek. I. Am. Going. To. DIE.” Stiles pleads with him with his eyes. He watches as Derek takes a deep deliberate sniff, then his eyes fly open and flash red and Stiles is suddenly on his back with two hundred pounds of hard, hot werewolf pressing him into the mattress.

“I thought,” Derek rasps. “I thought you were just horny all the time. For Erica. For anyone. You’re sixteen years old. I thought this was your natural state.” He leans close to Stiles, breathing in deep again.

“Just around you,” Stiles whispers, arching his body up to finally feel the sweet friction of his dick rubbing against Derek’s thigh through two layers of denim.

“But.” Derek shakes his head, looking like he’s trying to clear it. “But. I’ve wanted to...this...for fucking _ever_. You don’t even know, do you. What you do to me.” He grinds against Stiles, and Stiles feels Derek’s rock hard dick pressing against his own thigh. It might just be the best thing he’s ever felt in his entire fucking _life_.

“You’re. Um. Oh my god, this is awesome,” Stiles breathes and suddenly Derek’s mouth crashes into his, and it is on. Derek kisses him with angry insistence, mashing his mouth against Stiles' and shoving his tongue inside, and Stiles would not change a single thing about his clumsy inelegance. Derek licks a stripe up Stiles' neck and bites the side of his jaw and a growl rises from deep in his chest. Stiles answers with a groan and scrabbles at Derek's back, finding the hem of Derek's t-shirt and tugging at it frantically. "Off, off, off," he gasps, and Derek grasps it at the back of his own neck and yanks it off over his head. Stiles just stops, frozen, at the sight of Derek crouched shirtless and panting over him, eyes red, biceps flexing, and claws extended just the tiniest bit.

"How are you even real," Stiles whispers. He runs a finger down Derek's hard stomach, bumping over the muscles one by one, and bends the finger to scratch his nail through the line of hair descending to...his finger hooks in the waistband of Derek's jeans and Derek snarls and grates out, "Stiles," like it hurts.

Stiles continues, "I can't stop looking at you. Every day. I look at this, at you, at your perfect body and your perfect face and your stupid scowl, and I just want. You. I just want you. All the time."

Derek doesn't answer, just stares down at Stiles, chest heaving slightly, and reaches out to put his thumb against Stiles' lower lip. Stiles kisses it.

"How can you want me? I'm just...me. And you're perfect," Stiles whispers.

Derek leans over and puts his mouth next to Stiles' ear. He whispers, "Stiles. Do you know how many times I've been in this bed, jerking off, thinking about your mouth? Did you know your mouth is always open? Your lips are always pink and wet? You always smell so goddamned good, Stiles. I've been naked on this bed, with my dick in my hand, thinking about how long your fingers are, what you look like when you think no one's watching, the way you always have something in your fucking mouth. So many times. I thought...I thought you were for Erica, that you wanted each other. I wasn't going to interfere. I need the pack to be happy. And you're sixteen and it's wrong for me to think about you like this, to think about you sucking my cock and taking it deep, all the way inside you..."

He gets no further because Stiles lets out a little keen and finally gets brave and cups Derek's dick through his jeans. Derek jumps a little and grabs Stiles' wrists and pins him flat against the bed.

"This is still wrong, Stiles. You're still too young," he growls. "But I don't give a fuck anymore. You're mine." He bites Stiles, hard, on the collarbone and Stiles laughs a little hysterically and might actually come in his pants if Derek keeps growling in his ear like that. Stiles reaches up blindly, gets his hands on Derek’s hips, and pulls him in, grinding against him shamelessly. Derek fists his hand in Stiles’ shirt at his stomach and pulls it over Stiles’ head, where it gets trapped around his shoulders, like a shrug. And then they are skin to skin, chest to chest, and it is so warm and good, goosebumps pebble up Stiles’ arms.

Stiles kisses Derek again, kisses his lips, his jaw, his neck, nips a little at his neck, and Derek growls, which is Stiles’ new favorite thing in the world, making Derek growl like that. He finds the button on Derek’s jeans and pops it open, slides the zipper down, slips his fingers underneath at Derek’s hips, and finds...not the expected fabric, nothing but silky bare skin.

“Seriously?” Stiles pants out, incredulous. “You look like gay porn _and_ you don’t wear underwear? This is like Christmas, for fuck’s sake. Christmas, Derek.” He runs his hands over the points of Derek’s hip bones and around, sliding his hands flat down the back of Derek’s jeans and palming his ass. Derek shudders, eyes closed, looking wrecked. He presses into Stiles, then opens his eyes and Stiles’ heart stutters a little when he sees them glowing red.

“Take off your fucking clothes.”

It shouldn’t be so hot, being ordered around like that, but Stiles feels his limbs turn to liquid and he scrambles gracelessly to obey. He sits up, whips his shirt off from around his shoulders, yanks down his jeans and boxers in one go, and lays back on the bed, naked. He feels suddenly self-conscious, all skinny arms and legs, but doesn’t really have time for any of that because-

Without pause, Derek climbs up over his body and kneels over Stiles’ face. He reaches into his open jeans and pulls out his straining dick, heavy and dark with blood. “Suck me,” he grates. And then adds, “Please,” in a whisper.

Stiles looks up at him, looking down with a dark, fierce expression on his face. He thinks _I did that, I made Derek look like that_ , and it makes him feel brave and reckless and he holds Derek’s dick by the shaft and puts his mouth around the head.

 _There’s a dick in my mouth_ , Stiles thinks wonderingly. _Derek’s dick is in my mouth_. He has no idea what he’s doing, he’s never even been on the receiving end of a blowjob, much less given one, so he thinks about all the gay porn he’s watched this summer and sort of swirls his tongue around the underside, gripping it firmly with his hand. Derek smells so good, musky and warm.

“Fuck,” Derek whispers. “Go slow.” He holds Stiles’ face between his big hands and pumps, very gently, into Stiles’ mouth.

That seems promising, so Stiles risks a look up at Derek, and Derek makes a _noise_ , sort of a high whining snarl, which seems even more promising. So Stiles keeps on looking up at him, sucking and drooling on himself a little and stopping to lick around the tip and then trying to fit the whole thing into his mouth, which isn’t going to happen without a _lot_ of practice, because Derek’s dick is, unsurprisingly but still wonderfully, fucking huge. Stiles’ own dick is hard as a rock and leaking pre-come onto his own belly, and Stiles doesn’t even care, doesn’t even give a shit if it ever gets touched, as long as he gets to suck Derek’s dick for the rest of his life, with breaks for Diet Coke and curly fries. Just this, this is enough.

But it doesn’t last forever, because within an amount of time that might be days or just several minutes, Stiles doesn’t know and doesn’t care, he feels Derek stiffen even further in his mouth, Derek’s hands tighten convulsively on his face, and Derek yanks his dick out, Stiles following it with his mouth with a very undignified whine. Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ head and pushes it back, stretching out Stiles’ neck, and then grabs himself with his other hand and with a bass rumbling growl ripping from his chest, shoots ropes of thick white come all over Stiles’ neck and chest.

“Mine,” he pants out, his cock jerking in his hand. “Mine.”

“Yours,” Stiles agrees, loving it, loving Derek falling apart. “All yours.”

Derek slows, lowering himself to Stiles’ side, and buries his face in Stiles’ neck, rubbing in the come there and breathing all over Stiles. It should be disgusting, it would be disgusting with anyone else, but it’s not, it’s fucking hot, and Stiles might actually just come himself, might just reach down and grab himself and it would take about two seconds, seriously, he’s so close...

Derek intercepts Stiles’ hand on its way down his body and pins it down again. “No.”

“No?” Stiles whispers.

“No. That’s mine too.”

Stiles hiccups a laugh. “Well, get on it then, big guy. Time waits for no werewolf, and all that.” His voice is strained and high.

Derek doesn’t laugh. Derek plants a big hand in the middle of Stiles’ chest, holds him there, leans over, and swallows Stiles’ dick all in one go.

“Oh my sweet jesus mary mother of christ,” Stiles babbles, arching off the bed as much as he can with Derek’s hand pinning him flat. “Derek, fuck, your mouth, it’s like a...fuck...keep doing...like that. Oh my fucking god, just like that.” Because Derek doesn’t need any instruction, Derek is perfect and his mouth is perfect and hot and wet and Stiles _can’t believe_ he’s survived sixteen years without Derek’s mouth on his dick, because why would anyone, how could anyone _live_ without this? “Keep...oh fuck...I’m gonna-”

And Derek pulls off and pumps Stiles’ dick with the hand that isn’t holding him down, and he aims Stiles’ dick at his own stomach so that when Stiles comes, he coats Derek’s abs and it drips down into Derek’s black pubic hair. And when Stiles stops convulsing and swearing and saying Derek’s name over and over again, when he starts being able to breathe and see and stuff, Derek lays down beside him and lazily rubs Stiles’ come into his stomach, raking through the streaks of it and idly raising a thumb to his mouth to lick some off.

Stiles lets out an exhausted laugh. “I think you have a come fetish.”

Derek rumbles a laugh beside him. “We smell good. Taste good.”

“Back to Tarzan monosyllables, then, are we? Fine, that’s good. Everything’s good. I think you may have ruined me for anyone else, you know. No one else is going to play in my come the way you do.”

Derek grunts and jerks Stiles toward his side. “Mine,” he insists, snuffling at Stiles’ neck, which is sticky with dried come and starting to itch. 

Stiles swats him away. “Yes, yes, yours, we’ve established that. Don’t get cocky, big man. I need a shower.”

“No!” Derek growls.

“All right!” Stiles raises his hands. “We can lay here in our own nasty sex stench and dried come for a while if you prefer. Damned touchy werewolves. Whatever makes you happy.”

There is a silence. “You make me happy,” Derek says into Stiles’ neck. Stiles is, for once, out of words. He wraps his arms around Derek in answer, and they lay silent, listening to each other breathe, drifting towards sleep.

*

A week or so later, Stiles is still attempting to suppress the permanent smile attached to his face. As of last night, he is now no longer a virgin in any technical sense, and although he’s feeling a little sore and well-used today, he has literally never in his life been happier.

Erica sits down on the porch step next to him. “You owe me so big for this, you know.”

Stiles snorts. “I owe you? I’m pretty sure you hindered more than helped, you know.”

She shakes her head. “No way. Look how well everything’s turned out.” She gestures toward the yard. Derek is wrestling playfully with Scott (and Stiles thinks how amazing Scott had been when Stiles finally explained everything, how Scott had just put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and said, “You’re my best friend. Everything else doesn’t matter,” like his heart is just that simple and good) and the rest of the pack bask in Derek’s near-permanent good mood these days. There is a LOT of hugging and scent marking and pack piles and good will all around. And Stiles is in the middle of it now, Stiles who always reeks of Derek these days, who is almost an extension of their alpha, Stiles never gets left out anymore. Stiles is where he belongs. He shifts on the step slightly and lets out a near-inaudible groan, and sees Derek turn and smirk at him.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re an awesome sex god,” he mutters, waving a hand, and Derek turns back to the play-fighting with a grin. Erica laughs and wrinkles her nose. “You two are so gross.”

“You should talk,” he points out, gesturing toward Boyd, who finally took hold of his balls recently and told Erica that he was basically crazy about her. Her expression softens as she looks at Boyd, and she sighs out, “Yeah.”

Stiles leans over and puts his chin on his knees. “What a summer.”

“Stiles!” he hears Derek bark, and he rises and lopes over.

“Yeah?”

“Go train with Allison. Your bow work is still crap.”

Stiles pouts a little. “But I’m working!”

“You are not, you’re screwing around with Erica. Go.”

Stiles huffs a sigh. Derek’s face softens. He says, more quietly, just for Stiles,

“Go. And later, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n!” Stiles salutes smartly and turns to lope off into the woods to where Allison has set up the practice range. Derek catches his arm.

“What?” Stiles turns back.

“Just-” and Derek crushes him in a hug against his chest. He kisses Stiles on top of the head. “Go. And come back. Soon.”

“Always,” Stiles says. And he goes.

Fin


End file.
